


The Demon In The Mirror

by TheOneAndOnlyKey



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Corruption, Dark Hermione Granger, Demon AU, F/F, demon!Bella
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-21
Updated: 2020-04-21
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:01:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23761975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheOneAndOnlyKey/pseuds/TheOneAndOnlyKey
Summary: “Come to edge,” coaxed the demoness with a crooked smile.“We are scared!” protested the masses — an eclectic army of weary youths and elders.“Come to the edge; I will not harm you.”After few consoling reassurances from a tongue honed in the art of deceit, the foolhardy approached, though wearily, the seductive timber of her voice not yet overwhelming reason. Peering over the edge, she was swift to assuage the fear that glimmered in their eyes: who were they to question one who had transcended beyond their meagre lot in life?
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Bellatrix Black Lestrange
Comments: 9
Kudos: 63





	The Demon In The Mirror

The depths of Hell were a murky place: a place of pain, sorrow, and despair. A place for nefarious deeds to be lauded; a place for ill intention to run rife. 

Above it all sat a Lord of cloak and shadow. Merciful was he, that his world was a utopia for those who dared seek the power his Light counterpart preached to be utterly proscribed. The Dark Lord favoured the brave, the strong, and the powerful: He offered them all, should they only prostrate themselves before His might and pledge their unending fealty. 

So noble was He, never once had He stooped so low as to prey upon the weak, the feeble, nor the impressionable. He — the glorious He — only accepted those informed of the choice they were making; unlike the wretched Dumbledore — preaching to the manipulable outcasts, pouring golden words into their ears so that they might surrender to the side of the self-proclaimed angels. 

As such, an army of his creation assembled: an amalgamation of the disadvantaged. They crowed words of war into the abyss, attempting to taunt the Dark Lord into war, to face their body of carnage. Of course, the clever Lord of Darkness would not be tempted so easily, nor by such a feeble attempt. 

Why would the Dark Lord himself address such a matter when he had many loyal subjects who would be honoured at such a task?

Hence, a mass of feral ebony locks known as Bellatrix bowed before the alter of his throne, eyes as deep as the pit of Tartarus itself glimmering in reverence. A cloak made of darkness itself betrayed little of the muscles that had hardened over years of use; her body becoming nearly as keen as her mind. Anything to please her Lord. Power — in any form — always pleased her Lord. 

Her task was clear: quell the raging tides of war before He was forced to retaliate. 

She was only too happy to oblige. Appearing before the assemblage in a garb of silver, floating over the chasm — the epicentre of their taunts — as though a true being of Light. 

“Come to edge,” coaxed the demoness with a crooked smile. 

“We are scared!” protested the masses — an eclectic army of weary youths and elders. 

“Come to the edge; I will not harm you.”

After few consoling reassurances from a tongue honed in the art of deceit, the foolhardy approached, though wearily, the seductive timber of her voice not yet overwhelming reason. Peering over the edge, she was swift to assuage the fear that glimmered in their eyes: who were they to question one who had transcended beyond their meagre lot in life?

Hive-minded capitulation had them succumbing to the allure of her silver tongue. Then? Then they swarmed. Closer, closer, closer. Enraptured they came, peering into the abyss. 

All it had taken was a simple push. 

Down they fell. 

Dumbledore’s army: all for naught. Dumbledore’s attempt against her Lord rendered redundant. The senile fool would topple from his throne of ivory, built from lies, and in his place her Lord would rise. 

Down they fell. 

Bodies twisted in a futile attempt to grasp solid mass, to halt their inevitable descent. It was delectably paradoxical. Comical beauty defined in a way Michaelangelo would envy; although, the sheer terror contorting their features had more the flair of Dante and his more macabre wiles. 

Down they fell, cackling pursuing them all the while, her soul soaring on their misfortune. At least, that was, until she realised she was not alone. 

She turned in a flurry of ebony drapes, irritation and intrigue wrestled for dominance in her bosom. Who could resist her call? Who could resist her? 

Inevitably, intrigue won out when she finally clapped obsidian eyes on the being, so impertinent. A young girl — no older than she was when she pledged her soul to the Dark Lord — trembled before her, her face speaking volumes of the esoteric conflict of one caught between two minds. Emotions sifted past honey eyes faster than light; her eyebrows knitted in a way that betrayed mental warfare. What a positively delicious little witch...

One perfect brow arched in a tangible manifestation of her curiosity. 

“You didn’t?” Though posed as a question, she spoke it as a statement. Voice no longer of a melodic variety, it held a husky quality that spoke of sinful things done in sinful places. It wasn’t much of a conversation starter, but it did the trick: the girl was pulled from her introspection to shift her attention to the waiting demoness before her. “Why?”

“Why?” She had a nice voice, Bellatrix decided. Soft spoken betraying years of ignoring company in place of a good book. Bella should know: her sisters’ voices held that same tint. She sounded.... lost. “You just told us to... come to the edge. I have no reason to trust you.”

A clever girl. Strange she should find herself entangled with such a dim witted crowd when clearly she could be so much more. Intelligence was prized in His domain: she would do well in the land of the demons. “And how can we change that, pet?”

“You could start by not calling me pet.” The retaliation seemed instinctual, a mindless reflex, but it was enough. Callous by nature, the mind overcame the sorrows of the heart as it calculated her inquiry. Perfect. Though prone to a temper, Bellatrix had never particularly enjoyed dealing with emotions — neither her own nor those of others. “I suppose you could start by telling me your name?”

“My name? Easy. I am Bellatrix: head of the Noble and Most Ancient House Black; the Dark Lord’s most favoured follower.” She proclaimed with pride easily mistaken for arrogance. “I come to offer you another chance.”

Analytical eyes roved over her body, from rakish grin to heeled boots, with almost tangible distrust. “Let me guess. I join you on the side of the Dark?”

“Don’t sound so judgemental. You don’t have much of a better choice. Not to mention, the way I see it? Your Saint Dumbledore has set you up to die.” A pout tugged at her lower lip tauntingly, before curving back into a smirk. “So, what will it be? Join the Dark Lord and learn things you could never imagine knowing—“ The little witch’s ears seemed to prick at that, just as she suspected they would— “or go skipping back to that old coot who’d rather keep you ignorant than informed.” 

Slowly, a hand was extended towards the little witch. “Tell me, pet,” (cue scathing look) “did he tell you anything at all?”

Something seemed to steel within the girl; a fire seemed to ignite. “I’m Granger. Hermione Granger.” Said Hermione, in a voice that could’ve cowed mountains to move before her. 

A hand fell into place within her own, and she dragged her down to a Hell she called home.


End file.
